


Pudding

by amaruuk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Chocolate, First Time, Fluff, Fluffy Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: Post-Apocalypse, Crowley wants more."I—" He broke off again and looked away. A man, holding a dog by its lead, came toward them. Crowley hissed and the man instantly jerked his dog off the pavement and onto the grass, giving them a wide berth."Someone has a bee in his bonnet," Aziraphale remarked mildly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 84





	Pudding

"Aziraphale."

"Hm?"

They were walking in the park, having fed the last of the day-old bread to the ducks, a swan or two, a couple of grebes, and a coot. It was a soft autumn afternoon, fading into evening, the warmth of the day lingering. Light shone through the trees and flickered on the red and yellow leaves as they slipped free and drifted lazily downward. Shadows stretched across the lawns, a prickle of the chill that would soon follow carried in their darkness.

"I—" Crowley began, but the words dried in his mouth and he abruptly stopped.

Aziraphale gave him a curious glance. "Yes?"

Not quite able to meet those quick eyes, Crowley became suddenly intent on something at the opposite end of the park. "I—that is, I have a question."

"A very serious question, by the sound of it," Aziraphale observed. A pair of squirrels gamboling amidst the branches of a big oak distracted him, and he bent his head back to follow their progress up through the leaves.

Crowley pulled a face. He jammed his fingers further into his pockets, a very tight fit.

Aziraphale paused mid-step. "As serious as that?" He had noticed Crowley's lack of response.

"I—" He broke off again and looked away. A man, holding a dog by its lead, came toward them. Crowley hissed and the man instantly jerked his dog off the pavement and onto the grass, giving them a wide berth.

"Someone has a bee in his bonnet," Aziraphale remarked mildly.

Crowley ground his teeth together. He cast a quick look at the angel, finding his face as calm but concerned as he might have expected. If he didn't speak now— He forced the words out in a rush. "I want to make love to you." It came out more stridently—and loudly—than he had intended. A couple of sparrows in a branch overhead startled and darted away. A woman sitting with a small child on a bench next to the path raised her brows and gave him a speaking look. He bared his teeth and she blanched, reflexively hugging the child closer.

They resumed strolling, and for a long—a terribly long—time, Aziraphale said nothing. Crowley groaned inwardly and began desperately to think of ways he could transform that confession into something else. He had made outrageous statements before. Nothing quite so directly personal, true (asking him to run away with him implied only a desire for companionship, surely); but if he was quick he could twist— Aziraphale spoke before he could wrestle his brain into coherent thought. "That's not really a question, you know." 

Crowley's inward groan spilled out into actual sound. All of his courage, all of his will had gone into forming those seven words. His instincts—and, yes, a certain amount of cowardice—had told him it was still far too soon. Perhaps another thousand years—? Would it have been that hard to wait?

Aziraphale's voice, warm and gentle, came to him through the shrieking static of his misery. "But I think I should like to hear a bit more."

Crowley's head swiveled on his neck and he shot a sharp look at his companion. Aziraphale smiled placidly back at him. "Over dinner. What do you say?"

"Yes," Crowley croaked.

* * *

He found himself seated at a small, dimly lit table in an Indian restaurant not far from Aziraphale's bookshop. Across from him, his face softened by the flicker of a candle squashed into an empty wine bottle, Aziraphale surveyed the menu. Crowley's insides writhed. He wanted the angel so badly he could taste him; though that taste, warm and musky and faintly scented with his current cologne, was entirely imagined. It didn't matter that he had actually held Aziraphale's fingers, felt the curve of his smile, stroked his face, and touched his hair—all from the inside, during their brief exchange of bodies. He wanted to do all of that with his own fingers, his own lips. 

He knew that the angel cared for him, no matter that he had once declared that not only were they not friends, he did not even like him. He had been lying at that moment, and Crowley had not believed him for an instant. Through all the years they had known each other, from that first meeting on the parapet of the wall surrounding Eden, they had shared a rare bond. No insignificant thing for an angel, befriending a demon. And he had stood at Crowley's side, brandishing the flaming sword that he had never wanted, to defend the world—and them—against the powers of Heaven and Hell, against Satan himself. And now they had been set free of their bonds, no longer answerable to Heaven or Hell. Free to live their lives among mortals. In many ways, as mortals.

But quite how strongly Aziraphale felt for him, beyond their ages-old friendship, he did not know. Sometimes, he liked to think that Aziraphale loved him. Well, he was pretty sure he loved him; he was an angel, and he was mostly made of love. But there were times when he caught a strange look in the angel's eyes, a sort of quiet yearning. In the next instant it would be gone, and Crowley always put it down to his overactive imagination.

Their server appeared at the table. Before she could ask for their orders, Crowley said, "Whatever he's having." Aziraphale smiled indulgently. He chose the lamb tandoori, yellow rice, and extra naan bread. As the server collected their menus, Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and gazed kindly at Crowley.

Crowley felt a gripping sensation in the region of his heart. He recognized that look: it was the prelude to a letdown. Undoubtedly it would be tendered with affection and, yes, kindness. Crowley couldn't bear it. He stood, his rising so violent that the small table rocked. "Just—" He gestured vaguely toward the other end of the dining area. "Just need to wash my hands." Aziraphale nodded, said nothing. Crowley could feel his eyes on him as he wove his way through the small tables, swinging his hips to avoid running into the other patrons.

In the tiny toilet, he leaned back against the locked door. "Idiot," he muttered. "Git."

He would have to make a joke of it. Something to do with Aziraphale's new cologne, perhaps. Liking it so much that he wanted to— Frowning at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, Crowley sighed. He could always slip out the back door. Call him later. Apologize. He could do that. He had done it before. Drawing himself up to his full height, Crowley washed his hands with unnecessary vigor (though he could have far more easily magicked them clean), dried them roughly, and glared at himself in the mirror. "Man up!" he muttered to himself and exited the toilet at speed, almost mowing down an elderly gentleman who was waiting outside. He grunted an apology and retraced his steps into the dining area.

Aziraphale greeted him with a smile. Crowley must have been gone longer than he had realized, for their meals were already on the table. He did not smile in return. "You should have started without me," he said, as he slid onto his chair.

Unfolding his napkin and arranging it on his lap, Aziraphale said, "Of course not." He raised his glass of wine and held it out. The wine, too, must have been ordered while he was gone. Crowley clinked their glasses together and took a gulp.

Aziraphale, at first, concentrated on his meal. After slowly chewing a few bites and taking another drink of his wine, he stopped, holding fork and knife poised over his plate. "So." Before Crowley, in a welter of dismay, could forestall him, Aziraphale said, "You want to make love to me."

Crowley, whose own mouth was full of food, was incapable of speech. He was grateful for the dark lenses that obscured his eyes, for his dread of rejection must otherwise have been all too obvious. He bobbed his head once, an affirmative.

It seemed that their table had been chosen—Aziraphale's choice—with design. It was the last one at the end of the room and stood a little apart from the others. They could speak quietly without being overheard. Filling his fork with a small slice of lamb and a portion of rice, Aziraphale said, "Tell me."

Crowley swallowed, and the food that had been caught between his teeth, barely chewed, stuck in his throat. He bolted his wine, only just avoiding a bout of choking.

With a sort of flourish of his empty fork, Aziraphale explained behind his napkin, "What it is that you want to do. To me."

For a moment, Crowley could only stare at him. Aziraphale could be remote, and, rarely, in a pinch, unkind. But he had never known him to be cruel. Trusting that he was serious, that this wasn't a means of exposing him to ridicule, Crowley set down his cutlery and leaned forward. The table was small; their heads came close together. "All right," he said, and his voice shook a little. "First, I would kiss you."

Aziraphale's gaze dropped to Crowley's mouth. Only slowly did he look back up and into Crowley's eyes. "And then?"

Feeling a little surer, Crowley let his voice drop lower. "That would go on for a while." He wanted to be very clear. "Not only your mouth."

Aziraphale's brows rose but he did not otherwise change expression. He sat back, the food on his plate apparently forgotten. His cheeks had turned pink. "Not only my mouth?"

"Your ears." He ran a fingertip down the outer curve of his own ear. "Your neck." The fingertip traveled down the line of his neck from ear to collarbone. "Your throat." He touched the hollow at the base of his own neck. "Here." Aziraphale's eyes, much wider now, followed from each spot to the next. Crowley said, "Everything hiding under your clothes. Every bit of you." He was rewarded with what he was sure was a faint shudder. 

Aziraphale blinked again, this time with a rapid flutter of lashes. He returned his attention to his plate, though he made no move to continue eating. But because he expected it, dreaded it, Crowley thought he could see shutters falling, a resumption of Aziraphale's usual reserve taking shape, rebuilding the distance, both physical and emotional, that they kept between them. He felt an instant of fierce frustration. It had always been left to him to persuade Aziraphale to do the things he shied away from, the things he believed unangelic. It had taken Crowley five thousand years just to get him to agree that they could help each other. How long—?

"And after that?" Aziraphale brought his head up, and in his eyes there was a hint of distrust mingled with doubt. Crowley knew that he wasn't asking what followed the kissing. He wanted to know what happened after they made love.

Crowley, not hesitating, damn the consequences, reached out and took Aziraphale's hand in his. "I love you, angel."

The distrust and doubt vanished from Aziraphale's face, replaced with a kind of hopeful vulnerability. He turned his hand over, so that their palms met, and squeezed Crowley's hand back. "Eat your dinner," he said lightly, and tightened his fingers again. "We'll speak more of this later."

* * *

As they walked away from the restaurant, unhurriedly navigating the busy streets, their bodies cast thin shadows formed by the brightly lit display windows and overhead streetlamps. Evening had come while they ate. A haze of pale blue, peach, and a streak of rouge colored the sky near the horizon; the heavens overhead were already filled with night. Their footsteps took them alongside a still-open patisserie. Crowley noticed Aziraphale eyeing the cakes and pastries arranged in the window. "What would you like?" he asked. "You didn't get your pud after dinner. My treat."

Aziraphale declined. "I have a lovely single-source chocolate at the shop. Enough for both of us." He offered a grateful smile. "Perhaps another time."

Crowley would have bought him the shop. He glanced away, automatically keeping watch on other pedestrians, his heart beating faster. The evening was cool but mild, but Crowley was filled with warm anticipation. If Aziraphale noticed anything unusual about him, he kept it to himself.

The CLOSED sign was prominently placed in the window of the bookshop. Ignoring the interested peerings of passers-by, Aziraphale keyed open the lock and ushered Crowley inside. He closed the door firmly behind them and pulled down the shade, in case anyone might be so impertinent as to knock.

He led the way into the backroom, slipping off his jacket as he went, stopping only to carefully hang it on the coat rack. Waving Crowley toward the sofa, he went around the corner to his kitchenette. Crowley stood in the middle of the cluttered space, a second home to him—really, more home than his own flat, which wasn't all that welcoming, save for his big-screen TV and terrified plants—and idly pivoted on his heels. Aziraphale appeared with a bottle of port and two glasses, and gave them into Crowley's hands. Crowley opened his mouth to offer assistance, but Aziraphale was already wheeling away, calling over his shoulder, "Back in a jiff. Need to prepare the chocolate."

Grateful for something to do, Crowley took off his glasses, uncovered the corkscrew from the collection of odds and ends on the end table, and set to work. Minutes later he sat perched on the edge of the sofa, very still. The wine was poured, glasses waiting on the side table. It had been only moments since Aziraphale had left, but his time-sense was fractured, had been since the instant he had spoken those seven words. At last there came the sound of footsteps. He started to rise, but Aziraphale, carrying a small melting pot, a thin handle sticking out of it, gestured for him to remain where he was. Unusually, he had removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. Preparing the chocolate had obviously been a serious business.

The angel came to a halt a couple of feet away. He radiated a relaxed geniality that Crowley knew at once was counterfeit. When he was truly at ease, Aziraphale could run clocks backward. At the moment, however, he displayed all the usual signs of Aziraphale in distress. He couldn't seem to make eye contact (though he tried); his movements were jerky and tense; and his expression was set in a sort of _relaxed geniality_ that was patently false. _Brittle_ , was the way Crowley thought of him, at such moments.

Crowley's heart sank. This was not going to go well. He started to speak, his voice low and steady, as one might talk to an upset child. Not that Crowley spoke to children that way. He didn't speak to them at all, if he could avoid it. "Aziraphale—"

But Aziraphale interrupted him. "Budge up." He pointed his chin toward the middle of the sofa.

Crowley's brows rose in startlement—he had never known Aziraphale to sit anywhere but in his favorite chair—but he obeyed, ignoring the wheeze of the cushions as he rose just enough to slide over, giving Aziraphale the spot nearest the armrest. The sofa was very old and exhaled like a dowager as he sat back against its elderly stuffing. His knees stood higher than his hips, his hands were awkward on his kneecaps, and he felt a little trapped. To cover his discomfort, he made a show of assessing the single pot of chocolate and the absence of cups. He feigned disappointment. "That's our pudding?" He added jokingly, "Where's mine?" His words cut off abruptly as Aziraphale sank down beside him. Even on park benches they always maintained some distance between them. Here, now, they were pressed tightly together, thigh to thigh. Crowley held his breath.

"That," Aziraphale muttered, "would be me." Then, in his normal tones: "Now open your mouth."

Crowley gawped. He must not have heard correctly. "What did you just say?"

"I said, open your mouth." Each word came out clipped, specific, imperious. The hand holding the melting pot, however, was quivering.

"No, before that—"

"Crowley."

Maybe he _had_ misheard. In any case, he certainly wasn't going to get an answer. Crowley heaved a sigh, grimaced, and even though it felt weird, he let his lips fall apart. "Ot ee er 'onna 'alk?"

"We will. Now don't move; otherwise it could get very messy." He gave the pot a stir and lifted out a small pastry brush, thickly coated in dark, melted chocolate.

Having dimly expected a spoon, Crowley shrank back. "What—?" 

" _Crowley."_ Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath. "Please."

"All right, all right." Crowley tipped his head back again and opened his mouth, wondering how the day could have gone more wrong. In the next instant, he decided _this_ was how. Aziraphale lacquered a layer of chocolate on his bottom lip. Chocolate wasn't the worst thing in the world, but it really wasn't his thing. Not like it was for Aziraphale, who adored the stuff. Why in Satan's name would he—? 

Aziraphale bent very near, closed his mouth over Crowley's bottom lip, and began to suck.

Crowley's brain seized up, every thought in his head reduced in an instant to white noise. And then he burst into flames—or he imagined that he did. He was suddenly hotter than the sun, his skin inflamed, his forehead prickling with a fine sweat. Aziraphale continued to kiss him long after the chocolate must be gone, and Crowley regretted doubting him. With or without chocolate—why chocolate?—he wanted this to go on forever.

Aziraphale drew away at last, his eyes a smoky shade of ash, his face dusky rose. Whatever he saw in Crowley's expression reassured him, for he stirred the pot once more, and held it out. "Your turn."

Crowley took the small metal container in nerveless fingers. Aziraphale, edging a little closer, his eyes watchful but trusting, opened his mouth. For a moment, Crowley could only stare. It was impossible to think with all the static in his head and the anxious heat surging in his body. His reaction seemed to disconcert Aziraphale. "Was that not all right?" he asked uncomfortably.

"It was—" Crowley's voice broke. "It was perfect."

Relief washed across Aziraphale's face. He gave his vest a tug and sat up straight. "Right. Carry on, then." He parted his lips again, just a little, and closed his eyes. And waited. 

Crowley kissed him, the merest, quickest meeting of lips, because he simply could not resist. Aziraphale blinked, confusion quickly turning to understanding. He smiled shyly and opened his mouth yet again. This time, Crowley managed to wield the brush, painting Aziraphale's lower lip with exaggerated care. The chocolate was thickening, but a few drops succeeded in spilling onto his chin. Crowley moved in to lap them into his mouth at once, only then inching upward until he covered Aziraphale's lips with a deep, humming murmur of pleasure.

After some time, he pulled away. "Angel," he said. Aziraphale looked up at him, his gaze sweetly unfocused. For a long, long moment, they stared into each other's eyes. Crowley moved forward. Aziraphale drew back. He took the pot from Crowley's hand, his face set. "Rest your head against the back of the sofa."

Aziraphale's voice was even lower, richer, than usual, and gave additional incitement to the seething going on inside him. Shivering, Crowley complied, and in doing so, exposed the long line of his throat. He felt the hairs of the brush spread a swath of warmth from just beneath his chin to his Adam's apple. Before it could begin to cool, Aziraphale was there, interspersing unhurried swipes of his tongue with tiny nibbling bites and languid, exploratory sucking, with a hint of teeth. Crowley thought he would lose his mind. He bit off a groan, his hands clutching his own knees, needing something to cling to—or else he would turn that energy, that rapidly increasing need, onto Aziraphale, who was obviously not ready for it. A liquid warmth pooled in the hollow of his throat. Velvet curls caressed the underside of his jaw as that smooth, wet tongue winkled the chocolate out. The room was heady with chocolate. Crowley's head was full of Aziraphale.

While Aziraphale mercilessly continued his loving assault (apparently forgetting to give Crowley his turn), Crowley floated on sensation, his entire focus on Aziraphale's efforts, the rough mumurings coming from deep in his throat. He scarcely noticed when the sofa changed beneath them, moving deeper into the room while the back folded down until it lay flat, and he along with it. A soft rush of air and the glide of searching fingers brought his head up, and he peered quizzically down at himself. Aziraphale had magicked his shirt open, baring him to the waist. He watched as chocolate followed touch and lips followed chocolate, Aziraphale's face rapt with concentration. He let his head drop back to the sofa with a thump.

"Oh, yes." Aziraphale's voice, thick with desire, was as warm and sweet as the melted chocolate he sucked off Crowley's skin. As he worked his way down the length of his chest, his mouth hot and unrelenting, Crowley felt his control begin to unravel. He had never felt such urgency, this kind of urgency. His insides were nothing but molten wanting. When Aziraphale's fingers began to pry at his waistband, he could remain passive no longer. He surged upright, forcing Aziraphale to fall back, and took the pot and brush from his hands.

"My turn." It came out harsh, almost a growl. Aziraphale's eyes widened. But he did not object—no more than a helpless gasp—as Crowley set the pot aside long enough to guide him down to take his place. Aziraphale was a sight, his face savage with chocolate, dabs and smears on his cheeks and chin, the corners of his mouth dark with it. Crowley tidied him with short, tender licks and the rub of a thumb, returning again and again to his mouth, kissing him, kissing him. 

He drew up at last, his breathing ragged. Holding Aziraphale's gaze, he went up on his knees and carefully straddled him. The angel's eyes were luminous and his breathing equally unsteady. He gave his hips a tentative lift, and his eyes rolled shut. Crowley's insides lurched. He pushed down and Aziraphale gasped again. Finding his voice with obvious difficulty, Aziraphale reminded him shakily, "Your turn."

The damned chocolate. Crowley stretched out a hand, purposely scraping across Aziraphale's hips as he leaned over to retrieve it. Aziraphale's hushed groan melted inside his head. His hands slid onto Crowley's thighs and started to knead them. Crowley tapped the pot to warm the hardening chocolate, then gave it another stir. Aziraphale sighed as the brush touched his lips, followed by Crowley's mouth in a ravishing kiss.

Crowley's unraveling control, he discovered, had limits, and he was fast approaching them. He ran a trembling finger down the center of Aziraphale's shirt and vest and bared him as he had been bared. Forcing himself to take his time—with a strength of will he didn't know he had—he delved and tasted, reveling in the tiny sounds Aziraphale could not contain. But he reached the end of restraint as he sucked the sweetness from a tightening nipple—and Aziraphale cried out his name.

He placed the pot on the floor. "Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered. His hands were now on Crowley's upper thighs, his thumbs moving in widening circles. "It's time, angel," Crowley said, his voice as rough as gravel, and snapped his fingers. Their clothing disappeared. Rational thought went, too. All that remained, as Crowley nudged Aziraphale's thighs apart, was the intimacy of their touch, and the tenderness of their lovemaking.

* * *

Later, snug beneath the throw, with the sofa back in its usual position, they drank their port. Crowley, half reclining, held Aziraphale tucked close against his side, his chin resting in dense curls. He tried not to be possessive, but he feared to let him go.

For in this aftermath, Crowley was worried. Since that last, shattering moment, more wonderful than even his generous imagination could have conjured, Aziraphale had said nothing. Not one word. He had allowed Crowley to gather him in his arms; had accepted his untouched glass of port; and lay, now, warm and lax against him. All in silence. Aziraphale did not do silence. And so Crowley could not help but fret. Would he withdraw? Would he be embarrassed or ashamed? He could be mercurial, his angel. And this—well, this was far outside the scope of his angelic remit.

"You're thinking very hard," Aziraphale remarked and craned his head up to sip his wine.

"I—" Crowley stammered, "I—yes. Are you—that is, are you all right?"

"Well," Aziraphale replied thoughtfully, "that _was_ marvelous."

Crowley flinched. "Don't tell me there's a 'but' coming."

Aziraphale rubbed his cheek against Crowley's jaw, apparently still thinking. "Not a 'but,' exactly." He paused. "Nor an 'also.'" Paused again. "And, really, 'therefore' is entirely too formal."

"Aziraphale…."

He tilted his head back and regarded Crowley gravely. Crowley, frantic inside his own head, thought wildly, _If he tries to end this, I won't let him. I'll find a way to—_

But Aziraphale pushed up just enough to kiss the tip of Crowley's nose. "My dear Crowley, my very own fiend—" His voice was as warm and gentle as a breeze in summer, his eyes suffused with emotion. "I cannot express how very much I love you."

Crowley's arms closed convulsively around him, both glasses of port disappearing from their hands at the last instant. "Thank God!" he exclaimed.

_"What?"_

"Satan, God, Whoever," Crowley babbled. "I was afraid—"

"Hush." Stroking Crowley's cheek, he said, "What we did—that was lovely." He trailed his hand downward until it was spread, star-like, upon Crowley's chest. "And I will very much want to do it again. But this—" His fingertips began to form gentle patterns upon his skin. "—being together like this, is even better."

Crowley picked up Aziraphale's hand and cherishingly kissed his fingers. With a glint in his eyes, he said, "Speak for yourself, angel."

Aziraphale gave a muffled laugh as Crowley coiled around him and began to kiss him again. He sighed as Crowley's mouth moved downward. The demon took his time, mapping the angel's body anew, grateful to the sofa for once again reshaping itself into a bed. It made it easier when he tipped a portion of the remains of the chocolate—a jolt of demonic will all that was needed for warming—onto a very sensitive part of him, and began to apply tongue and lips to best, enthusiastic effect. 

"One question," Crowley said huskily, between long, sweeping licks.

"A real question?" Aziraphale asked, his breathing erratic.

"Why chocolate?"

"Chocolate?"

Lest the moment be lost to untimely conversation, Crowley continued his ministrations, refusing to be hurried, even though Aziraphale was straining beneath him, his fingers in Crowley's hair, his hand riding the luscious glide of his mouth, up and down. "Why did we need chocolate?" Crowley asked, lifting his head to look down at him. Aziraphale's face was flushed, his lashes fanned against his cheeks, his teeth, just visible between parted lips, very white. He was beautiful.

Mewling softly in complaint, it took Aziraphale a moment for conscious thought to return. And when he finally did reply, it was with some reluctance. "It's just—well, you go so fast, Crowley." He shrugged apologetically. "I thought it would help to slow things down." He stroked Crowley's cheek, his fingers tracing the outline of his bottom lip, his jaw. "I hope you don't mind."

Transfixed by those innocently wanton eyes, Crowley almost forgot what they were talking about. As it registered, he realized that he really didn't give a damn. If Aziraphale wanted chocolate every time they shared a bed—fast or slow—he was more than willing. 

But he wasn't going to tell Aziraphale that.

"Slow." Crowley grinned wickedly down at him, pleased by the flicker of apprehension in Aziraphale's eyes. "I can go slow." He took up the pot and tipped out the last of its contents, watching as the smooth flow turned to a dribble. Carefully, he placed the pot on the floor. Finally, to Aziraphale's obvious appreciation, he lowered his mouth once more, molding his tongue to that silken length drenched in chocolate, and proceeded to go very, very slow. He took Aziraphale right up to the edge, once, twice, distracting him with a luxurious kiss even though his body was unquestionably clamoring for more. Their lips parted with a soft, moist sound. "Slow enough, angel?" 

"Crowley, _please_ ," Aziraphale whimpered.

"Come here." He rolled onto his back and pulled Aziraphale on top of him, guiding him between his legs, welcoming him there. He was needy, too. Aziraphale began to move, haltingly at first and then with greater assurance and purpose, kissing Crowley with single-minded intensity. Crowley grasped his hips and moved with him. Not even a minute passed before Aziraphale buried his face in the hollow of Crowley's shoulder and clung to him, breathing out his name and shuddering uncontrollably. And not even a minute after that, Crowley followed, holding the angel painfully close, loving him so much in that perfect moment, he thought his heart might burst.

A while later, they lay quietly together once more. Crowley's arms were still wrapped possessively around him, stroking the heavy head on his chest, fingers half-buried in his hair. Aziraphale made quiet, happy noises, and from time to time pressed lazy kisses against Crowley's throat. Though it wasn't in the angel's nature, it was clear that he was drifting off. Crowley, loath to let the moment go, but drifting a little himself, thought of going slow, and how, sometimes, that wasn't a bad thing at all. And, just before sleep overtook him, he realized that he had not misheard Aziraphale earlier. Grinning contentedly to himself, he murmured, "Love you, too, pudding."

End


End file.
